Shattered Ice
by ko-writes
Summary: Mycroft has a nervous breakdown and Greg cares for him while he recovers. Mystrade.
1. Chapter 1

Paperwork needs to completed. Tick.

It's a bit quiet here today... Tock.

It's how the Diogenes Club works, you imbecile. Tick.

Too much to do. Tock.

Sherlock's about to walk head-first into danger. Tick. I have a responsibility to stop him. Tock. The paperwork still needs to be finished. Tick. Why do they all give it to me, it's their paperwork. Tock. New weapons. Tick. Need to see and approve them today. Tock. But when? Tick. Too little time. Tock.

Ding! _Peace negotiation needed with Middle East. Needed today._

Tick. Tock. No time. Tick, tock, tick, tock. I just need time. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Too much! Ticktockticktockticktockticktock. Help me! Ticktockticktockticktockticktock. I feel like I'm drowning! Ticktockticktockticktockticktock.

That was the day Mycroft Holmes finally broke.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Gregory had been so good. He'd taken Mycroft in when he was released from the hospital - well, moved into Mycroft's townhouse with him - yes, they were in a relationship, but he didn't have to.

Mycroft was lying in bed. He hadn't gotten out of bed, other to shower and use the facilities, for a week. He hadn't eaten too much, the food made him sick. He had broken something, but he didn't know what.

He had been informed at the hospital that he had screamed and lashed out during his little 'moment'. He couldn't reply. He just couldn't find his words, nor had found his words over the last week, since his mental breakdown. He'd never be able to show his face in the club again.

A few cards were stacked on top of the nightstand from his colleagues - close colleagues - and family who wished him to 'get well soon'. Some had colourful flowers, some had cartoons, some had painted toys; the closest to the mark was Sherlock's which had a print of Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night - he quite liked that painting.

There was a soft knock at his door and he sat up, pulling his knees to his chest like a frightened child and wrung his hands nervously, shaking slightly.

"Myc... Someone wants to see you, can we come in?" Gregory asked through the door. _One knock for yes, two for no_.

Mycroft pulled on his warm, oversized hoodie which had become almost like a security blanket to him and knocked once on the nightstand.

The door slowly opened and Gregory's soft smiling face came into view, "Hey, Myc. You ok?" He asked.

Mycroft shook his head. He wasn't alright, he'd never be alright again, surely?

"It's ok, Myc." It's only then when he heard that he realised he was crying. Not sobbing, just tears over cheeks falling and staining them blotchy red. Gregory sat next to him slowly, deliberately and gently placed his arms around him. It was warm.

The days where they would laugh, footloose and fancy-free for _once_ in Mycroft's life, and cuddle on the sofa watching a DVD felt... Over. It was like Gregory was doomed to become his career. He didn't want that! He wanted love! He didn't want someone who had to drag him through the rest of his life! That's when a sob broke loose and Mycroft buried his face into Gregory's broad chest.

"It's not going to last forever, you know," Gregory soothed, "It's only temporary..."

Mycroft shook his head into Gregory's shoulder, sobs breaking loose from where he kept them chained in him.

"It _is_ Myc. Now, do you want to talk to this bloke - Lord Harvey, or something, I think - or do you want me to send him away. Oh, one knock for the first option, two for the second."

Mycroft knocked once, smoothing his hair and wiping away tears. He did know what Lord Harvey could possibly want with him in this state. Did he know he still couldn't speak?

Gregory must have seen the questioning thoughts dance across his face. "He knows you can't speak; he said he just wanted to see how you were... Still want to see him?"

There was a time where Mycroft would have sneered at being talked to in such a way, but he didn't really care so much now. Gregory's voice was soft and sweet. He was so tired. He nodded minutely.

"Ok, I'll go get him," Greg informed softly, kissing Mycroft's pale, blotchy cheek. The detective inspector pushed himself to his feet and went to get Mycroft's colleague.

Mycroft suddenly became aware of how pathetic he must look; sitting in bed with his knees to his chest, wearing pyjama bottoms and a hoodie in place if his three piece suit, and the amount of weight he'd lost recently from not eating from lack of time before his breakdown and then due to inability after. His hair must be a statically charged mess. He let his head fall to his hands and he groaned softly; he was a mess. He scrubbed his cheeks, willing the blotches to disappear.

There was a short, but sharp, tap at the door - cane handle - that startled him. He berated himself for it and knocked on the nightstand.

The short, stout man bustled through the door and Mycroft was instantly on edge. "Holmes," The man greeted.

Mycroft fisted his hands in the loose fabric of the hoodie. He felt anxiousness rise in his throat, making him feel ill, and he stared at the bed sheets. How was he reduced to this? He was Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the ice man... Wasn't he? It seemed his icy exterior had shattered, as ice sometimes does, leaving him raw and bruised.

"You are required to take a leave of absence," Lord Harvey informed sternly, "Only until you are recovered -"

Mycroft shook his head feverishly, his hands buried themselves in his curls - one too many missed hairdressing appointments - and clutched and pulled at them, still shaking his head.

"Holmes?"

Gregory seemed to come out of nowhere. Mycroft realised what was happening - his chest was tight and painful, his lung struggled for breath, his stomach flipped - he was having a panic attack. Gregory had firm hands on his knees and squeezed, grounding him. "It's alright, Myc. I'm here. You don't have to go back the minute your better..."

_ No, no, no, no; that isn't why! That isn't why! Think of all the work I'd_ _have to do! Other people don't know what to do! I need to be there! I need to be at work __**now**__! I'll never be better, so I may as well go back now! _He shook his head even harder and faster.

Gregory noticed his panic. "Hey, it's alright. Everything will be fine. You can't go to work until you're better, and you will be better. I promise you'll get better, Myc. Just breathe..."

He couldn't breathe! That was the problem! Mycroft then did something he hadn't done since infancy... He whimpered.

"Come on, Myc. Breathe with me. In..."

He did not need to be coddled! He needed control! He needed -! He needed -! He needed Gregory to help him.

He took a choking breath in, coughing and gasping. He couldn't do it!

"It's alright, Myc..." Gregory soothed, gently untangling his fingers from his ginger curls, "Let's try again."

Mycroft gasped a quick breath. It wasn't enough!

"Again, breath with me, Myc."

A little better. Less gasping.

"That's really good, Myc."

He was shaking, vibrating and there were tears drying on his cheek... But he was breathing again.

Lord Harvey looked incredibly awkward as he surveyed the scene. "I think I'll go, Holmes. Get well soon." And the Lord left. He would never hear the end of this.


	3. Chapter 3

He remembered the morning of that awful day. He and Gregory had fought; that's probably what put him on edge more than anything. Not that he was blaming his dear Gregory! No, of course not! He loved Gregory. He'd do anything for him...

* * *

_ "Myc, this is the sixth late night in a row!" Greg groaned._

_ "Some of us have important jobs, Gregory; I need to resolve an issue -"_

_ "Oh, Mycroft Holmes the British Government; so high and mighty over the lowly DI!" Gregory exclaimed, voice dripping with sarcasm._

_ "You know I didn't mean it like that!" He was being stretched too much! He felt like an elastic band in the hands of a child (Sherlock, anyway), being pulled and release, pulled and released, stretching and not quite relaxing before being stretched tighter._

_ "Yes you did! You're just like your junkie brother! You're addicted to your work!"_

_ That was when the glass he had on the table smashed against the door, Mycroft's arm still raised. _

_ Gregory scowled at him. "Fuck you," He spat, grabbing his coat and leaving. _

_ Mycroft was frozen, he had snapped, he'd ruined his chances with Gregory. Bloody temper. He ignored the pricking behind his eyes and the icy glass shards stabbing his heart as he cleaned up the broken glass._

* * *

Five hours later, Gregory received a call saying that Mycroft had been taken to hospital following a nervous breakdown.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Text

"Maybe we could stay in that country house of yours for a little bit. I read on this website that getting back to nature, all the fresh air and stuff, is meant to be good for you. We can go for walks when you're a little better; I can make lemonade, gran gave me a recipe years ago, it's really good, we can sit outside in the fresh air, relax a bit; maybe you can take up painting again and I'll take some time off from work and keep you company, take up guitar again maybe... I don't know. What do you think?" Gregory asked.

Mycroft shrugged. He couldn't think, his brain was just... stuffy.

"Come on, it'll be great. The fresh country air, the flowers, the woods; you'll be on the mend in no time," Greg smiled.

Mycroft considered it. It'd been so long since he was in the country. It'd been so long since he drank homemade lemonade and relaxed. It'd been years since he'd painted. He nodded.

"Really?" Greg beamed, "Great, Myc. It'll be fun. When do you want to go?"

Mycroft gave him a small half-smile - Well, more a twitch at the corner of his mouth, really.

"Tomorrow, maybe?" Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. He did think it was a good idea, and the weather was good for a change, it might be nice.

"I'll go pack," Gregory smiled. They were both stressed (Mycroft more so than Greg, but what did that matter), time off and a little country break would be nice.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Sherlock had come to visit him; it was nice to forget the bad blood between them for once. Sherlock didn't expect him to communicate, unlike a certain Sargent Donovan when she visited Gregory a week ago. She had visited Gregory a few days ago, asking why he wasn't at the yard, and had called Mycroft pathetic - Gregory had thrown her out.

Instead, Sherlock told him about recent cases, the experiments he was conducting, the practical joke he played on Phillip Anderson which resulted in being chased through New Scotland Yard, and that John and he were thinking about getting a dog together (Sherlock wanted to get a shelter dog but John didn't trust him to not come home with twenty). Mycroft listened intently.

"Remember that holiday to Brighton?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded; how could he forget?

"I still can't believe you let me bury you in the sand, even though you knew what I would do..."

Bury him and then run off to get ice cream, leaving him stuck.

"I panicked when I couldn't find you; but I did, eventually, and was almost in tears as I dug you out. But then you hugged me and told me it was alright; we went to get some taffy after you calmed me down," Sherlock reminisced softly.

Mycroft smiled, ducking his head. Sherlock was five and he was fifteen on that holiday. He was surprised Sherlock chose to keep that memory.

"Don't look like that, I kept all the memories from those days..." Sherlock paused. Alien awkwardness invaded his features and he took a breath. "You weren't the 'Ice Man' back then, Myc; and I think you were happier when you weren't. The Mycroft I knew was a painter who always smiled, listened to old folk music on records and didn't feel the need to hide the fact that he was crying at his grandmother's funeral. He was a very happy, care-free man."

Mycroft fisted the material of the hoodie and scrunched his toes in the blanket. It was true; he was much happier then. He remembered running around the house in tie-dye t-shirts, laughing with Sherlock and Redbeard; he remembered his delicate watercolours and experiments with balloons filled with paint, popping them with darts.

"Graham said you're going to live in the country for a little while; it should be beneficial..."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. At least Sherlock remembered the first two letters of Gregory's name.

"Oh, um... Gavin?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft scowled.

"Well, Lestrade," Sherlock dismissed, "Enjoy your time there; remember to relax..."

Mycroft nodded and Sherlock made his way towards the door.

"Oh, I just want to say... When you come back, I wouldn't mind seeing a bit of the old, happy Mycroft. If you can. I think it didn't helped your stress; not relaxing and keeping up the 'Ice Man' façade of yours... You don't have to pretend, brother mine." Sherlock left the room.

Mycroft wanted to call after him; say that he didn't need to keep up his own façade, either.


End file.
